Open Writing

Action in France

Towards the end of July 1944 they were on the move. Released from their “Triangle” they began to pursue and capture the enemy. Soon it was obvious that the morale of some of the German troops was low.

Ironside, the padre, found some of them cowering in a ditch, terrified to come out, fearing they would be shot. When coaxing failed to produce the desired result he drew himself up to his full height and bellowed “Ich bin pastor, you silly men, Ich bin pastor!”

This story aroused a good deal of mirth when it was told throughout the Battalion.

The troops were provided with aerial photographs which gave them a good idea of the lie of the land which lay ahead. Robbie, checking the photographs provided to him, noted a number of white circles in a field. When he asked what they were he was told, “There is no information on them. They could be the result of poor photography.’’

Unwilling to jeopardise his men, he persisted. “These circles appear to occur fairly regularly. They could be mines.”
“I suppose it is possible,’’ was the response. “However we have no information of mines in that area.”

He decided to tell his men that their route was across a field where no threat was perceived, but he warned them to take special care because of the possibility of enemy activity.
As they began to cross the field Robbie laughed out loud. The white circles had been made by goats tethered to fixed points. The animals had eaten all the grass they had been able to reach, leaving what showed up as white circles on the photographs.

Robbie and his men could not depend on either photographs or maps. Warfare changed the contours of the land. A couple of hours of intensive shelling drastically altered the scenery. Woods could vanish. Roads could disappear beneath a jumble of broken trees. Finding one’s way forward was challenging, particularly so at night.

In the forward push Ironside stood on a schu mine. The initial charge removed his glasses from his face, but the main charge failed to go off. Amazingly the glasses were unbroken.
Robbie, having been in close contact with the enemy for so long, was instinctively aware of their presence. “It’s a strange thing,’’ he was to tell his daughter years later. “You don’t need to see them. You simply know they are there. You feel their presence.”

“We were marching along a road beside an orchard, not expecting to encounter problems. Suddenly I knew the enemy was in the vicinity. This was not just an irrational fear, a suspicion. It was a certainty. I got on the radio, calling in tank support. Naturally there were questions. What was the enemy’s strength? Where exactly were they? Of course I couldn’t answer. I could only say that I knew they were around.’’

Tank support was refused.

The soldiers under Robbie’s command thought him to be a “lucky’’ officer. They trusted his instincts unquestioningly. Following his lead, they crept forwards, fully alert, ready for trouble. Careful as they were, they reached an exposed place and came under fire. The enemy had the advantage. His men were being hit.

At last the vital tank support arrived, but it was too late to save some lives. Robbie was furious. Apparently his difficult situation had not been understood by someone who could have sent help. Only later did he hear of a conversation which had taken place when he radioed for help.

“What was all that about?’’ a friend of Robbie’s had asked the person who had received his radioed request.

“Oh, C Company are asking for tank reinforcement. Can’t see any enemy, but they want tanks.”

“That’s Robbie’s Company,” the friend mused. “He is not prone to asking for help unless he needs it.”

“Are you saying that we should send tanks when there is no sign of the enemy?” queried the officer.

“I’m saying that Robbie is not a rookie. He is not prone to flights of fancy or imaginings. He is not easily scared. If he told me he wanted tanks, I would certainly give it consideration.”
So, the tanks had started rolling, and they arrived at the scene of the action much more quickly than they might have done but for Robbie’s intuition.

Robbie told of being given wrong directions. “We were shown a map of a small town, with a church clearly marked upon it. To reach our next objective we were told to turn left when we reached the church. It was a very small town, and we did not anticipate problems, but there was no church to be found. Up and down the road we went, far beyond where we had anticipated turning off, looking for the landmark. Never before had I seen so many soldiers distressed by the lack of a church. In fact the confusion arose because the symbol represented not a church but a cross, a Calvary.’’

As they progressed through northern France, the troops were greeted by French citizens expressing their delight at being liberated. There was a heart-breaking moment. Fontaine-la-Mallet, a small town near Le Havre, had been completely flattened by a British bombardment. Not one building was still standing. This was the most horrific damage the battalion had encountered. A priest, desperately trying to find survivors in the wreckage, asked the soldiers for help. This request they had to refuse. They were a combat unit. They had orders to fulfil.

It was difficult for people whose homes had just been destroyed to understand that the Allied forces really were on their side.

Once Le Havre was captured, the British found out how industrious the Germans had been, with the result being no more like a trench than a shed is a castle. Through a small steel door there was a concrete-lined tunnel running for about 150 yards. After this it divided, and each branch had dormitories on both sides of the corridor. There were also store rooms holding all manner of things – ammunition, butter, champagne… Spiral staircases led up to carefully disguised cupolas in a potato field, which was as good as any periscope. Yes, they must have been busy, these last four years.

It was as well that the Allies had attacked at night. In daylight they would have been in view and range of the hidden Germans.

By September the battalion had reached the border between France and Holland. It was here that the snipers were to come into their own.

Major Richard Fleming, who spent a lot of time in No Man’s Land and hatched many a plot with these men, gives the following account of the scene:

“They go their own ways regardless of what the rest of the Battalion does, what Standing Orders say, or what three brigades, the Divisional Artillery and the machine-gunners think they are doing. You can easily spot them when the battalion is settling down for the night. In quite the most comfortable corner, but at the same time at a discreet distance from the Regimental Sergeant Major’s habitation, you will see a bundle of shapeless figures in a variety of dress gathered like tinkers round a blazing fire which has clearly been made up regardless either of black-out or of petrol scarcity. A savoury sizzling smell rises from the centre of the group, and a cloud of white feathers eddies in the evening breeze. In the background a murder is being committed. The shrieks of the victim die away in an ominous gurgling, and a red-headed figure smoking a pipe appears in the gloom carrying a corpse – a fat young porker…

To call this independent band a problem is understating it. They are a menace to all order loving sergeant –majors whenever we are out of the line. Luckily, thet are even more of a menace to the enemy at anything under four hundred yards when we are in contact.”

**

1989-1990

Peter was making superhuman efforts to make his life as normal as possible.

He had gathered his resolve again, found his stiff upper lip, and was willing to teach any personal assistant that came in the door.

He was passionate about what kind of life he could make for himself, given willing helpers. After one or two false starts, he began to understand what was required when you employ people in your own home. He had disciplined members of staff at his work. This was a new experience. How do you go about scolding someone when a few minutes later you might have to ask them to take you to the toilet? This was indeed a new challenge.

When helpers were off sick or away on holiday, Coatbridge’s daughter had taken their place. As the months went by Peter relied on her more and more.

His pilot project was attracting attention. It hadn’t fallen flat on its face. A proper account was being given for the funds made available. There was not a crisis every five minutes. Gradually people involved in the social care sector were becoming interested.

In June of 1990 he asked her to accompany him as his personal assistant to a conference in Germany which other disabled people would be attending. They knew another severely disabled man who would be going.

The hows and wherefores had all been addressed by the Social Work Department, he assured her. Transport, accommodation, everything had been sorted out. She had no reason to doubt this, so off they went, embarking on an adventure.

What had not been made clear to anyone was that everyone else asked to this conference was a wheelchair user. As there were approximately thirty, there was quite a logistical problem when it came to bedrooms, bathrooms and fire escapes. However, the Germans had it sussed. They were using a youth hostel.

On the face of it, the idea was very clever, and cheap. It was only when you tried to get four wheelchairs into a bedroom with four bunks that there was a problem. Firstly, they didn’t fit. Secondly, there was no privacy – not a huge issue for able-bodied, but rather dramatic for those less so. Thirdly, no matter how active or athletic the disabled persons were, they could not access the top bunks. So these had to be used for helpers, who needed to be in the same room as their charges. And couples wanted to be together.

It took a full twenty-four hours before all were settled. It was a slightly disconcerting experience, and the first time she had played musical beds.

The conference had representatives from every country in Europe. Embarrassingly, they all had to speak English during meeting time, as those from the UK were unable to speak any other language. This had a slight knock-on effect, because when it came time for break, when they could really chat - or ‘network’ as they say - no-one wanted to speak English anymore.

It was fascinating to see the different models being used in the Community. Germany had quite a good system, where conscientious objectors from the army were used as personal assistants. The down side was that as the disabled person grew older, the age of the CO’s, who were replaced yearly, remained the same.

The Danes had an excellent system – the envy of many – where an extremely disabled man had two very young and attractive blondes with him at all times. France, Belgium, Spain and England all had similar stories - good ideas, but not always thought through. Scotland had sent the two most disabled people with the fewest assistants.

They formed a motley group. Led by a disabled professor, with everyone from lawyers and businessmen to the unemployed, they vented their anger not only at the lack of assistance offered but at the sheer obstruction encountered. They all knew the problems of disability, but no-one would consult with them.

The services provided were worse than useless.
Maybe they were a band of troublemakers, but they proposed to produce an argument for the right to an ordinary life in the community.

As it came to the end of the conference and the parting of the ways, all went forward with renewed vigour to fight their own corners.